102 Work poems

I called a man today. After he said hello and I said hello came a pause during which it would have been confusing to say hello again so I said how are you doing and guess what, he said fine and wondered aloud how I was and it turns out I’m OK. He was on the couch watching cars painted with ads for Budweiser follow cars painted with ads for Tide around an oval that’s a metaphor for life because most of us run out of gas and settle for getting drunk in the stands and shouting at someone in a t-shirt we want kraut on our dog. I said he could have his job back and during the pause that followed his whiskers scrubbed the mouthpiece clean and his breath passed in and out in the tidal fashion popular with mammals until he broke through with the words how soon thank you ohmyGod which crossed his lips and drove through the wires on the backs of ions as one long word as one hard prayer of relief meant to be heard by the sky. When he began to cry I tried with the shape of my silence to say I understood but each confession of fear and poverty was more awkward than what you learn in the shower. After he hung up I went outside and sat with one hand in the bower of the other and thought if I turn my head to the left it changes the song of the oriole and if I give a job to one stomach other forks are naked and if tonight a steak sizzles in his kitchen do the seven other people staring at their phones hear?

Day after day, along with his placid automobiles, that well-groomed sallow young man had been waiting for me, as in the cheerful, unchanging weather of a billboard—pacing the tiles, patting his tie, knotting, un- knotting the façade of his smile while staring out the window. He was so bad at the job he reminded me of myself the summer I failed at selling Time and Life in New Jersey. Even though I was a boy I could feel someone else’s voice crawl out of my mouth, spoiling every word, like this cowed, polite kid in his tie and badge that said Greg, saying Ma’am to my wife, calling me Sir, retailing the air with such piety I had to find anything out the window. Maybe the rain.  It was gray and as honestly wet as ever.  Something we could both believe.

1    I look at my hands In a dark hour. They are my wife, Another life, Fawnal, Explicitly made. I compare responsibility To journey: They are pitch-black Whirling in the outside world Left behind like a native— Possessed. 2    We are older: Toil is our long way Back home. It works. Causes the space to beat Like a heart. It is a part of the poem That appears And appears on its own. It goes on On its own, Mystical as evil But, it is called freedom. 3    I’m sorry: I was telling you about my hands. How well we are married. It follows, I recognize all truth As some part of ten. Spirit is my thumb, Passionately. Without thumb I would be nothing. I have met some who believe in reason. They have had too much wine, Confess cause and effect— It has been painful. 4    I told you it is unreasonable: I guess I should say here, I am your carpenter. Ethnically, dark wood Is my life. I could show you my story better, Sanding, Then where I speak You would hear Africa Africa

For Christ’s sake, learn to type and have something to fall back on. Be someone, make something of yourself, look at Gertrudo Ganley. Always draw the curtains when the lights are on. Have nothing to do with the Shantalla gang, get yourself a right man with a Humber Sceptre. For Christ’s sake wash your neck before going into God’s house. Learn to speak properly, always pronounce your ings. Never smoke on the street, don’t be caught dead in them shameful tight slacks, spare the butter, economise, and for Christ’s sake at all times, watch your language.

In the beginning, in the list of begats, one begat got forgot: work begets work (one poem bears the next). In other words, once there was air, a bird could be got. Not taken. Not kept. But conjured up.

I look in the turned sod for an iron bolt that fell from the plow frame and find instead an arrowhead with delicate, chipped edges, still sharp, not much larger than a woman’s long fingernail. Pleased, I put the arrowhead into my overalls pocket, knowing that the man who shot the arrow and lost his work must have looked for it much longer than I will look for that bolt.

In a fish cleaning station near the equator, off the coast of Africa, summer stretches over the barracudas, their long mirrored-chrome bodies heaped like eel fillets, slung jaws gaping, red canine teeth exposed as if they still crave meat and muscle. Even dead, they are a melancholy fish, never satisfied, always wanting to bite off more than they can chew, their curious white eyes in a lidless showdown with an existence beyond the visible. Maybe they are the spawn of the serpent who prowled and tempted Eve, cast into the saltwater. They are terrifying and defiant, their pointed heads hammering towards the light, waiting for the first sign of weakness. The fishermen catch them hovering just beneath the surface. What is it like to die with your eyes wide open in the bright sun?

for Mandred Hecht the management organized the company and that was splendid enough chairs for all a quick change of clothes and scene brings us to the lawn of the company stretching out under our gaze which itself beer in hand stops short of the horizon (grazes) everything else vanished a certain rhythm (uncertain) of the blood directed attention to the tapping foot was this happiness being witnessed was this many weeks did the people over there look same as the people over there (hmm)     who were they were they salesmen     could we brush aside the tapping that by now had given way to winking and that to sleeping and then to tapping again what was being what was being covered up      was it a fabulous shoulder gleaming     was it an exact (and exacting) self-image suffering no monkey business     were they happy     did the countryside bloom, did not subside who were they     were they salesmen     and given fresh air and sun     who were their wives     were they salesmen, too  from here they look organized and like good company not to overlook the flowers and facts what were they doing here     had they been invited     did they receive invitations     with what grace was it many weeks     they "you bet I am" emotion reflected (a shoulder)     whose were they sales men (and women) did they make rounds     and (ooph) how spiffy did they look      did they look up as the management passed threading toward the logo-decorated dais were they former salesmen (and women)     did they look it     what was their country of origin     was it organized     who did they think they were     (or weren't) how did they look in the light of the flowers of the facts were they news     the kidding aside the beer flowed the lawn rolled endlessly in and out like a boat a picture of waves     was a storm brewing     when vacations came around were they still to be salesmen (and women)     and retirement what about retirement but who could be retiring under the gentle hand of unlimited beer and lawn were those beer-colored storm clouds rolling in were they invited     were they salesmen (and women)     where did they come from     would they go away could they be covered up      why were they unresponsive to good sense      and why were they gleaming did this look like a good place for rain to retire in would rain fall without invitation     would it spoil the company what effect would it have on self-image would the people look the same after the rain     were they salesmen (and women)     why were they gleaming     did the self-image include shoulders were they inviting were they cloud-like were they salesmen (and women) organized to manage a quick change was the self-image good company was it a salesman or a saleswoman invited to be a manager would they make the dais what about the clouds were there enough chairs for all the managers would they live happy in those chairs after they were managers     would they settle for chairs

Never were knuckle-men. Choked up on planks of smoke, they haul towards the peplum: stabbing back at time, splinters of it flip like cars. Rolled sleeves, knees cooked, the rousie is flirting with her broom, a blonde with criminal simplicity with historical truth we can detoxify a poisoned planet. Now they’re descending the spirit heap; dribbling pinkies along fair knotty thighs. Children are returning to pick up the butts. Still the brunette is caving in the face of time, is making herself a living treasure from this surplus hour the minutes fly

They’re heading home with their lights on, dust and wood glue, yellow dome lights on their metallic long beds: 250s, 2500s— as much overtime as you want, deadline, dotted line, dazed through the last few hours, dried primer on their knuckles, sawdust calf-high on their jeans, scraped boots, the rough plumbing and electric in, way ahead of the game except for the check, such a clutter of cans and iced-tea bottles, napkins, coffee cups, paper plates on the front seat floor with cords and saws, tired above the eyes, back of the beyond, thirsty. There’s a parade of them through the two-lane highways, proudest on their way home, the first turn out of the jobsite, the first song with the belt off, pure breath of being alone for now, for now the insight of a full and answerable man. No one can take away the contentment of the first few miles and they know they can’t describe it, the black and purple sky.